I woke up this morning to find that both of my ankles had apparently convened an overnight meeting — without me — and decided to stage a slow-motion protest. Not painful, exactly. Just wrong. Not right, in that maddening way where you cannot even properly complain about it because there is no word for the sensation of joints that feel like they have been partially replaced with wet sand.
The knees held their own grievance session last night, especially on the stairs. And so here I am, making my best impression of a fully functional human being, having negotiated with my own body just to get to the coffee maker.
If you have ever thought to yourself, I did not sign up for this shit. Well, welcome. Pull up a chair. Mine is the one with the good armrests for getting up from.